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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202279">Raindrops on Roses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddienole/pseuds/maddienole'>maddienole</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autistic Number Five | The Boy, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus is a good brother, Loneliness, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Panic Attacks, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, So is Five, sensory issues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:48:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddienole/pseuds/maddienole</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five doesn't like thunderstorms. Klaus doesn't like being alone. But maybe....<em>just maybe</em>.... they can make it through together. </p><p>(or another excuse for me to abuse the 'Five and Klaus need a hug' tag)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dolores &amp; Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Number Five | The Boy &amp; Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy &amp; Reginald Hargreeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>354</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Raindrops on Roses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story was inspired by a little headcanon of mine that Five was on the autism spectrum and has sensory problems, including  over-responsiveness to lights and sounds.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Five didn’t like thunderstorms.</p><p>Cut that, he <em>hated</em> thunderstorms.</p><p>Five hated the sound of the raindrops slamming into the pavement, like a thousand guns going off all at once. He hated the crack of lightning that broke through the inky blackness of the nighttime sky. He hated the boom of the thunder that sounded like a war was waging outside of his window.</p><p>He hated....<em>noise</em>.</p><p>Now this <em>shouldn’t</em> have been a problem - the noise thing. Most times he could simply distance himself from whatever current headache- inducing nuisance that had the audacity to break through his blissful silence.</p><p>But not thunderstorms.</p><p>One simply couldn’t run away from nature’s biggest travesty, so instead he had to deal with it in the best way he could.</p><p>By trying to ignore it.</p><p>(spoiler- it never worked.)</p><p>He used to scream as a toddler, mushing his chubby hands against his ears and curling up in as tight a ball as possible. He would scream himself hoarse because the screaming drowned out the thunder and <em>anything</em> was better than the thunder.</p><p>Father would punish him.</p><p>Diego would laugh.</p><p><em>“There was no room for fear in the Umbrella Academy</em>,” father would say.</p><p><em>“You are weak, Number Five</em>,” father would say.</p><p><em>“You are being irrational</em>,” father would say.</p><p>But that was the thing - Five <em>wasn’t</em> scared of thunderstorms. He didn’t fear them, not like Allison feared the spiders in her shower or Ben feared the monsters in his stomach. No, it always came back to the <em>noise.</em></p><p>The noise would come and it was <em>loud</em> and it wouldn’t stop and it <em>hurt</em>. It hurt and nobody understood why it hurt and Five couldn’t explain <em>how</em> it hurt....it just <em>did</em>. Every clap of thunder made his powers go haywire, and when his powers didn’t work right then bad things would happen.</p><p>It was one night -<em> Five was no older than six, maybe seven</em> - it was the remnants of some hurricane whose name he couldn’t remember - and the rain was loud and the lightning was blinding. He blinked on accident when he heard the thunder - he blinked right outside of his bedroom.</p><p>His third story bedroom.</p><p>Mom gave him a hug as she wrapped his broken wrist.</p><p>Father called him weak and he cried the rest of the night.</p><p>He was crying now. It was fine to cry now, he would tell himself. It was <em>fine</em> to cry when he was alone. <em>Only</em> when he was alone. Five couldn’t stand the thought of one of his siblings bursting through the door when he was in the middle of a breakdown. They would start asking questions as they always did and act concerned as they always did.</p><p>Allison would try to mother him and Vanya wouldn’t leave him alone.</p><p>It was stifling and all he wanted was silence.</p><p>.....he hated thunderstorms.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak, Number Five,”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>Another burst of thunder. Five bit his lip to prevent a sound coming out. He made himself small - <em>as small as he could go</em> - tucking himself between his desk and the wall.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>This was ridiculous. He was an adult. Sure he <em>looked</em>  like a child, but it didn’t make him one. Right?</p><p>Another clap of thunder. The rain was pouring...pounding....and it was constant. Incessant. His brain felt like it was leaking through his ears. His head was aching something fierce. It was so <em>so</em> loud in here.</p><p>It didn’t matter that he was almost sixty. It didn’t matter that he was an assassin - a <em>great</em> assassin. It didn’t matter that he was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people.</p><p>Because in this moment he was four years old again, huddled in a corner and crying because he couldn’t make the sounds go away.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>He <em>was</em> weak. He couldn’t allow himself to be weak. Five took a deep breath, trying to control the erratic beat of his heart, and slowly made his way to his feet.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p><em>“No,” </em>he wanted to tell his father. <em>“I am not weak.”</em></p><p><em>“Then why are you so full of fear?”</em> his father then asked.</p><p>Five couldn’t answer. Maybe it was his brain. Maybe it was just <em>him</em>. Diego once said that there was something wrong with him - <em>up there</em> - in his head. Five knew he wasn’t being serious. Five knew he was lashing out, the end result of some petty childhood argument.</p><p>But it hurt.</p><p>It hurt because it was <em>true</em>. Nobody else had a problem with thunderstorms. Nobody but <em>him.</em></p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>He took a step forward. His hands dropped to his sides. His ears were ringing. His eyes were watering. Lightning flashed and for a brief second his room went white. Then the white faded and everything went wobbly. Melty.</p><p>Maybe it was because of the tears.</p><p>But tears were <em>okay</em>, they were okay because he was alone in his room. Everyone else was sleeping and he was alone in his room.</p><p>He was alone.</p><p>Alone.</p><p>He was old and alone and everything <em>hurt.</em></p><p>Maybe that was the reason he was crying.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak, Number Five.”</em>
</p><p>Another step. Another breath. He clenched his fist, then unclenched. His nails dug into his palms - deep enough to leave a half-moon mark, but not deep enough to draw blood. The pain was a distraction from the noise, if only a brief one.</p><p>He could hear his father laugh.</p><p>He dug his nails in deeper.</p><p>
  <em>“Take a walk, Five. It will distract you.”</em>
</p><p>That was Dolores. She was always telling him to walk. To keep moving. She told him that he would get far too into his head sometimes, that one day he would go in and not come out.</p><p>He laughed at her then. He laughed because he didn’t want to admit she was right. Dolores was always right.</p><p>
  <em>“Walk, Five. Now.”</em>
</p><p>Thunder boomed again. Blue sparks burned his fists. Another breath. A nod.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak, Number Five.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fuck you.”</em>
</p><p>He left the room.</p><p>Five wasn’t really sure where he was going. The mansion was big, plenty of space to pace, to walk upstairs, downstairs, around the living room and through the kitchen. Five was sweating and he was jittery. His father kept yelling at him and his palms were stinging. The rain kept pounding and the thunder kept rolling.</p><p>He almost missed the apocalypse. It didn’t rain much in the apocalypse. Sure, the air was unclean and buildings were on the verge of collapse. There wasn’t much in the way of food or company, but <em>damn</em> if there weren’t any thunderstorms. Not like there was here.</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No I’m not.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve killed.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve killed hundreds.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve stopped two apocalypses.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I murdered the whole commission board.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“With an axe.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are weak.”</em>
</p><p>He was wearing a hole in the carpet. His head hurt. His palms still stung. They were sticky and warm. His ears were ringing.</p><p>And it was still. fucking. raining.</p><p>Can’t Mother Earth take a damn vacation?</p><p>Another clap of thunder.</p><p>Five kicked the coffee table. His foot exploded with pain. Excellent, something else to focus on. Of course, now it also hurt to walk.</p><p>
  <em>“Are you happy now, Dolores?”</em>
</p><p>Five limped back upstairs. Now his head hurt, his foot hurt, his palms hurt<em> and for the love of god</em>, it was still pouring buckets outside.</p><p>Mother once suggested listening to music. It didn’t work, just adding more noise onto the noise that was already there, but it was at least worth the shot.</p><p>The steps came slowly, his breath came rapidly. He made it up one floor, and then up the other. He would just have to wait it out, preferably without killing himself in the process. As he made it back to his room, his eyes caught on to a light source - a <em>different</em> light source. This one wasn’t coming from his room.</p><p>This one was coming from Klaus’s room.</p><p>
  <em>Huh.</em>
</p><p>Had he been up this whole time? Well, it <em>was</em> Klaus. If there was anyone in this house that had a more fucked up sleep schedule than Five it would be the man who could talk to ghosts.</p><p>He hesitated.</p><p>
  <em>“Talk to him, Five.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I...don’t want to, D.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’ll be good for you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“But...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He understands.”</em>
</p><p>He understands.</p><p>Shit, maybe she <em>was</em> right.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m always right.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t get cocky.”</em>
</p><p>Five edged forward, hovering right outside of Klaus’s door. He didn’t need help. He was just...making sure Klaus was okay, like the good brother he was. He didn’t need help. He <em>didn’t</em>.</p><p>
  <em>He understands you.</em>
</p><p>Five knocks.</p><p>
  <em>“Five?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where...how?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Five did you....blink into my room?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He looks and realizes that he isn’t in his room anymore. A very tired looking Number Four is staring at him, hand hovering over the chain on his lamp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The thunder claps.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five screams and suddenly he’s on top of Number Four’s bookcase. An unfinished pile of math homework spills onto the floor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“....Five? Are you...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nononononono....</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was so loud. Father would be mad. Father will punish him again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>More thunder. Now he lands on the nightstand and falls to the floor with a crash.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Five!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could feel arms around him, yanking him up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s crying. Not Number Four. He is.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He could feel the tears on his face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are...you okay?” Four asks again. He doesn’t sound mad. Not like father. Not like Number Three when he knocked over her hat stand during the last storm. Not like Number Two when he landed flat on top of him during the one before that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five nodded, trying to stifle the sobbing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You...don’t look fine.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>More thunder.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He claws at his ears. He claws at his face, at his eyes...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hey, you’re gonna hurt yourself...” Number Four says urgently, grabbing his hands.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five squirms. More thunder. His hands are locked. Blue sparks fizzle and fade.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Everything hurts.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is...it the rain?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He shakes his head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The thunder?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five doesn’t reply. It hurts.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, okay. I’m...going to let go now, okay?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five sniffles. He nods. Number Four lets go.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody talks for a second, but it is still so loud outside. Number Four glances out the window, then back at Five.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s pretty bad tonight, huh?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five doesn’t respond.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“S’okay. I’m scared of stuff too. I don’t like ghosts.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I...I’m not scared of the storms.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Number Four raises an eyebrow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The noise. Th-the loud.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is that what’s making you jump everywhere?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Another nod.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It hurts.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>More thunder. He blinks again. Even his powers hurt, like an electric volt through his body. He lands on Number Four’s bed. He doesn’t have the energy to get up. He doesn’t try. He’s tired.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He’s so very tired.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Four sits down next to him, holding his hand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You can stay here if you like. For tonight.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t mind?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five never stayed in Four’s room before. He stayed in Six’s room a couple of times. He stayed in Seven’s room once, but her room was too small. But he never stayed in Four’s room. He didn’t talk to Four as much as Six and Seven.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Four shrugs in response.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I...like the company.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You do?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Five didn’t like company. People were loud. He couldn’t do math when people were loud. Father says he’s good at math, great even. Five likes making his father proud. That way he couldn’t call him weak.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah. I mean...it’s just the ghosts and me most of the time. It...gets lonely, you know?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lonely? Was Five lonely?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I...I guess so.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Four sniffles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No one visits me. One has Three and Two has mother and...and you have Six and Seven. I don’t have anyone. They think I’m weird.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Did they? Did One and Two and Three think Five was weird? Probably.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t think you’re weird, Four.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You don’t?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I mean....you’re not any weirder than everyone here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Another thunderclap. Maybe it was a good thing that Five’s energy reserves were depleted. No more jumping around. That didn’t stop him from jolting. It didn’t stop him from hurting.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Are...you sure you’re okay with me staying here tonight?” Five asks quietly. “Just for tonight?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Four smiles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah. Just for tonight.”</em>
</p><p>He knocks again. No answer. No <em>immediate</em> answer. He blinks and now he’s inside.</p><p>“<em>J.e.s.u.s </em>warn a guy before you....”</p><p>Klaus looks up from his knitting.</p><p>“....<em>oh</em>.”</p><p>Five must have really looked like shit. He could practically see Klaus’s face drop at the sight of him. For a second, there was nothing but silence.</p><p>“You’re bleeding on my floor, little dude.”</p><p><em>Huh</em>. Was he bleeding? His hands were sticky.</p><p>A thunderclap. Five flinches. He tries not to, but Klaus was one observant asshole.</p><p>“Ah. I’m sensing a case of thunderstorm-itis.”</p><p>“Fuck off.”</p><p>“That’s the spirit.”</p><p>He should leave. He didn’t want to leave. Klaus clearly didn’t expect him to leave. Five stands in place, eyes wavering between his brother and the floor. Blood continues to leak from his hands. His ears continue to ring. His head continues to pound.</p><p>He’s so tired.</p><p>Klaus walks back to his bed, picking up the needle and thread.</p><p>“You’re cleaning that mess up tomorrow, got it short stack? Allison keeps mother-hening me on keeping my room clean.”</p><p><em>Tomorrow</em>.</p><p>It <em>was</em> tomorrow, idiot.</p><p>Five opens his mouth. He closes it again. Klaus knits. The rain pours.</p><p>He’s so tired.</p><p><em>“Go to bed,</em>” Dolores says.</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes you can.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He doesn’t want me here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes he does.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No he doesn’t.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He’s lonely.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So am I.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He misses Ben. He’s lonely. He wants you here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why doesn’t he just say that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He doesn’t need to.”</em>
</p><p>Five sniffles. He clenches his fist. He unclenches his fist.</p><p>
  <em>“He’s lonely.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So am I.”</em>
</p><p>Five moves slowly - <em>god, his foot hurts</em> - and receiving no reaction from Klaus, climbs into bed. No words were said. No words <em>had</em> to be said.</p><p>And he just...lays there. The rain starts to lessen, the thunder comes to a stop. The only sound in the room is the clink of Klaus’s needles as they lull him to sleep. Five doesn’t know how long - <em>time is hazy </em>- before his brother finally puts the needles down, and reaches for the lamp.</p><p>“No,” Five murmurs. “Keep it on.”</p><p>He doesn’t like the dark.</p><p><em>“That doesn’t make you weak,”</em> Dolores tells him.</p><p>
  <em>“I know.”</em>
</p><p>He could feel Klaus shifting around beside him, his brother always had such a hard time falling asleep.</p><p>“Klaus?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll shank you.”</p><p>Five couldn’t see it, but somehow he knew his brother was smiling.</p><p>“Love you too, ankle-biter.”</p><p>Five also smiles.</p><p>And he finally sleeps.</p>
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